


Deskside Manner

by lears_daughter



Series: Mirandy Year of Fun and Frolics Bingo Card 6 [1]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Mirandy Year of Fun & Frolics, One shots mean never having to say you're sorry for not updating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 10:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lears_daughter/pseuds/lears_daughter
Summary: Miranda's second assistant is sick. Miranda problem-solves.





	Deskside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Mirandy Year of Fun and Frolics story to get me back into writing DWP fic. I’m still working on both One Step at a Time and my 40K+ word English maritime Mirandy AU, coming soon(ish...eventually...) to an AO3 near you.
> 
> Written for the prompt “viral plague”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own The Devil Wears Prada.

Miranda does not approve of her employees coming to work if they are ill; she also does not approve of her employees having the temerity to call in sick.

(“Working for Miranda is the definition of being caught between a rock and a hard place,” Andrea once whispered to Nigel when she thought she was out of Miranda’s hearing.

“Ah, but what a stunning rock, and what an elegant hard place,” Nigel murmured back.)

If Miranda were to waste any time thinking about it, she would acknowledge the obvious contradiction. Instead, when Andrea and Emily both show up to work in the throes of some viral plague no doubt contracted in the Elias-Clarke cafeteria or some similarly filth-infested environment, she simply glares at them and says, “Emily, go home. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve rid yourself of this bizarre inclination to leak mucus on every horizontal surface you encounter.”

Emily and Andrea, faces equally pale, noses equally red, lips equally chapped, eyes equally glassy, exchange a look that bespeaks deep envy on the part of each towards the other.

“Miranda, I’m fine,” Emily croaks. “Andrea’s temperature is higher than mine. She should go home, and I’ll stay.”

Andrea does not appear to object to this outrageous suggestion. She simply grimaces and tilts in the direction of the wall as if she might need it to hold her up.

Miranda’s eyes narrow. “Has this infection affected your hearing, Emily? Go home at once, and for god’s sake don’t touch anything on your way out. Andrea, with me.”

Emily glares at Andrea before trudging out of the office. Andrea musters her energy and follows Miranda into the lion’s den.

Miranda takes a moment to study her second assistant. It’s been three months since Paris—three months since Stephen left, three months since Jacqueline Follet was hoist by her own petard, three months since Andrea almost abandoned Miranda to be devoured by paparazzi in the Place de la Concorde—and since then the girl has consistently shone, like one of those so-called Seasonal Affective Disorder lamps bringing warmth and light to _Runway_ ’s immaculate offices. Today, for the first time in recent memory, that light is rather dim. Even a fetching Dolce leather jacket isn’t enough to relieve the misery evident in every line of her lovely, hunched figure.

There are errands to be run and Miranda is down an assistant for the day due to Emily’s extremely poor immune system. The entire day’s schedule relies on the retrieval of samples from a number of boutiques about town, a task Andrea could normally do in half an hour, on roller skates, with one hand tied behind her back. However, seeing the pitiful, pinched look on Andrea’s normally smiling face, she can’t bring herself to send the girl out onto the cruel Manhattan streets today.

By god, she hopes she isn’t going soft.

“Mind the phone,” she orders. “Clear my morning and cancel my lunch. I’ll be back in time for the run-through at two.”

Andrea’s eyelids very gradually descend and just as gradually resume their original position in what may be the slowest blink in recorded history. “Yes, Miranda,” she mumbles, and sneezes explosively all over the sleeve of that Dolce jacket.

Miranda points at the door. Andrea gets the hint and drags herself to her desk, collapsing into the chair.

It’s absurd to force the assistant to remain at work today. Miranda knows this, intellectually. She also knows that she cannot allow Andrea to place any unusual distance between them. What if the girl takes that distance, widens it, and never returns? It’s unthinkable.

“Summon Roy,” she says tersely, unsettled by a sudden and inexplicable burst of fear. She retrieves her coat and handbag from the closet and sweeps off without waiting for a response.

* * *

Four hours, seven boutiques, nine petrified salespeople, and fifty-seven scarves (twenty acceptable, thirty-seven unacceptable) later, Miranda finally returns to the Elias-Clarke building, feeling as if she has run the New York Marathon, or at least been forced to watch someone else run it.

(She thinks rather sourly that Andrea is probably the marathon type. She probably loves waking up obscenely early on the weekends to go for long runs. She probably returns looking wind-swept and stunning, her cheeks glowing with unearthly vitality. Her thoughts, Miranda realizes, are no longer sour. They’ve taken on a tinge she will choose to call _fond_ , although there are more sentimental words that would be far more fitting.)

She waves Roy off when he looks fretfully between the car and the door to the building, attempting to calculate a way to avoid being towed while still helping her haul the goods inside.

“Pick me up at six tonight,” she says, grunting as she manages to slip another bag over her shoulder. Her personal trainer has been slacking, it seems, when it comes to upper body strength. She’ll have to have a word with him about that. She doesn’t pay him ridiculous quantities of money simply to sculpt her into one of those weak, too-thin girls she puts on magazine covers. “We’ll be dropping Andrea at home. You know where she lives, yes?”

Roy smiles. “Andy? Yeah, of course. I’ll see you then, Miranda.”

There’s a Starbucks not half a block away, the sight of which makes Miranda salivate with the desire for a scorching coffee. Left alone, she takes a step towards the cafe before realizing she cannot possibly carry a hot beverage in addition to her current load. Andrea manages it effortlessly, but for the life of her Miranda cannot conceive of how it is physically possible.

Reigning in her desire—something she never does; desires are made to be fulfilled, unless it’s the desire for sugar—Miranda turns away from temptation and heads to her office.

Back on _Runway_ ’s floor, she hears coughing before she sees Andrea. The girl is on the phone, her words almost incomprehensible through the rough scratch of her voice. She hangs up just as Miranda rounds the bend and proceeds to stare as if Miranda has sprouted a second head or donned a graphic t-shirt.

“Here, let me help!” she says, struggling to her feet.

Miranda levels a glare at her. “Sit.”

Andrea sits.

Not taking her eye off the girl—Andrea seems to think many orders are mere suggestions, which is clearly a failure in Emily’s training—Miranda awkwardly shuffles past like one of those courting penguins in that documentary her daughters made her watch last year. With a thrill of victory she deposits her prizes on the rack in her office, her shoulders and arms going numb at the abrupt cessation of pressure.

Massaging her right arm, Miranda takes her seat, clicking through a series of emails Andrea sent with brief descriptions of the calls that came in while Miranda was out. Most are insignificant, although she supposes she ought to have her lawyer return Stephen’s lawyer’s call at some point. She doesn’t want to seem petty, though that’s certainly how she feels whenever she thinks of his excuses and accusations and refusals to take responsibility for his own failings as a husband and father.

“Tea, Andrea?” she asks, almost idly.

There’s a long pause before the girl pokes her head in, forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “You want tea, Miranda?”

“Do _you_ drink tea?” Miranda clarifies.

Andrea appears to debate a dozen possible answers before settling on a cautious: “Yes.”

Miranda nods, satisfied. Andrea hesitates, then, when nothing else is forthcoming, returns to her desk.

Miranda picks up the phone and dials Nigel’s extension. Other than Andrea’s, it’s the only one she has memorized, which is why she chooses her Fashion Director for the task she has in mind.

“I know, I know,” he answers in his usual harried way. “I promise the run-through will be perfect, Miranda, or at least as close to perfect as my exceptional fashion sense and Serena’s impeccable taste can get us."

“Nigel,” she says briskly, “I realize this is well below your pay grade, but I need you to run an errand.”

* * *

Nigel arrives on time for the run-through—which is fifteen minutes late by Miranda standards, though she forgives him just this once—with a Starbucks tray carefully balanced on each hand. “I know that you, like the Lord, work in mysterious ways, Miranda,” he says, setting the trays on Emily’s abandoned desk, “but I can’t for the life of me figure out what every flavor of tea at Starbucks has to do with our run through.”

She frowns at him. Why on Earth would he think the two are related? “Andrea, your tea has arrived.”

Nigel’s jaw drops. Andrea stares.

Miranda sniffs and turns her attention back to Serena, Jocelyn, and the other trembling minions in her office. “Well?” she demands. “Nigel is here. Why are none of you ready?”

They scurry into action. Miranda watches out of the corner of her eye as Andrea gingerly sniffs each tea before wrapping her hands around one of the cups with a shudder of relief.

Miranda uses her hand to smooth out the smile that has inexplicably formed on her own lips.

* * *

By the time six o’clock rolls around, Miranda feels almost as weary as Andrea looks.

“Come,” she says on her way out. “Roy is waiting for us.”

Andrea shakes her head sluggishly. “Us, Miranda? I have to stay. The Book—”

“The Book can wait until morning,” Miranda interrupts, which is rather like the Pope encouraging someone to set fire to the Bible. “Come, Andrea, before you end up sleeping here.”

Andrea pushes to her feet, clinging to the desk for balance, and almost falls when she attempts to reach for her clutch. Pursing her lips, Miranda picks it up herself, taking a moment to appreciate the quality Chanel design and craftsmanship. This particular clutch had been a gift to Miranda she would normally have kept. When she’d seen the flash of desire in Andrea’s eyes, however—a rarity, since even after all this time the girl still has no yen for fashion—she’d adjusted, pretending she’d planned to hand off the clutch all along.

They ride the elevator down in silence. Normally, being enclosed in a small space with another person causes Miranda acute discomfort. It’s been months since she discovered that isn’t the case when the other person is Andrea. Her therapist would probably have a thing or two to say if Miranda felt it necessary to share such personal information with her therapist, but she does not.

Andrea leans against the elevator wall, her eyelids at half-mast. There is something graceful about her exhaustion, something charismatic about her drawn expression. Perhaps this is a glimpse into the mature, exceptional woman she’ll be in twenty years. Miranda hopes she lives to see what Andrea becomes.

The elevator dings and it is impatience, surely, which drives Miranda to take Andrea by the hand and tow her out. She ignores the raised eyebrows of the security guards as the two of them make their way across the polished foyer.

Outside, Roy stands waiting at the open car door. When they reach him, he helps steer a half-awake Andrea inside.

“She’s really out of it,” he whispers. “Should’ve called in sick.”

“Mmm,” Miranda replies.

Once they are _en route_ , Miranda relaxes against the supple leather of her seat. She gazes out the window, tapping her chin with her finger, deep in thought. In the reflection in the glass, she catches a glimpse of Andrea looking at her with a grin that can best be described as dopey.

She turns to face the girl. “Are you all right?” It’s a question that perhaps would have been better asked eight hours ago, but she’d been too afraid of the answer.

“Of course, Miranda,” Andrea says in that painfully scratchy voice. “Are _you_ all right?”

It’s a nonsensical reply—Andrea is very clearly not “all right”—yet it warms Miranda to hear the concern in the girl’s voice.

“I will be, once you are safely delivered to your bed." Miranda hesitates, half-hoping Andrea will find more affectionate gibberish to share, but the girl seems content to simply gaze at her, rocking gently with the motion of the car. “I do not like it when you are ill, Andrea,” she says at last, tersely. “It’s simply unacceptable. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” Andrea says, so sincerely Miranda almost believes the girl heard the underlying sentiments Miranda can’t bring herself to speak. She sets her hand on Miranda’s, and even though she is Patient Zero Miranda cannot bring herself to move away.

The car pulls to a stop outside of a dilapidated building in Hell’s Kitchen that looks as if it ought to serve as the set for a gritty crime thriller. “We’re here,” Roy says.

“Do you need help getting inside?” Miranda asks. She has no opposition to assisting Andrea to her apartment, but she won’t insist on it. She’s taken over enough of the girl’s life without barging into her last refuge without so much as a by-your-leave.

Andrea shakes her head. “I’ll be okay.”

Miranda frowns but does not object. She draws her eyes across Andrea’s wan complexion and feels a stab of guilt. The girl really should have called in sick. Miranda is so glad she did not. “You needn’t come in tomorrow if you’re still ailing,” she offers through gritted teeth.

Andrea opens the door and topples out, catching herself at the last moment with a hand on the frame. She smiles, and though it is wobbly it is also brilliant. “Thank you for today,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miranda.”

The words form a promise, binding and nearly tangible. Lips curving, Miranda plucks it from the air and holds it to her heart as Andrea stumbles away.

She glances up to catch Roy watching her in the rear view mirror with an annoyingly knowing smirk.

She glowers. “ _Go_.”


End file.
